When in the City
by NewYorks
Summary: “I thought I’d told you not to come here anymore.” More of the encounter in the Emerald City. Fiyeraba. Even some form of fluff.


_**A/N:** Well, it's been a while, now, hasn't it? ;) I sorta got striked by this idea a little while ago, and since Valentine's day is near, I thought I'd finish it and share! Consider it my early Valentine Gift for you all. :)_

_Please read and review; it's been a while, and I'm really not sure how this turned out. Any comments are welcomed! ;)_

**Disclaimer**:_ I do not own_ Wicked_ in any form. I wish I did though. Does that count? ;P_

* * *

She roused at the touch.

"I thought I'd told you not to come here anymore," she didn't need to turn to know who was standing behind her back.

"You did," his hand was reaching out to her shoulder, inevitably sending shiver down her spine—she hoped he couldn't tell though, for she feared that upon finding out, _she_ wouldn't be able to contain herself.

She was surprised when she felt his hot breath against her neck, right behind her earlobe. "I just couldn't—" his skillful hand worked its way on her shoulder and up her sinuous neck, until it reached the space between her titled chin and extended collar. She closed her eyes, unintentionally savoring the delicate touch. Then, he whispered in a low, husky voice, "—resist."

She had to contain the potential moan that threatened to break through; but a soft noise emanated from her lips, causing him to smirk slightly against her skin. He smelled her hair then; she just undid him.

They lingered for a moment, neither of them actually able to move a limb—they both secretly wanted to stay in that position forever.

It was the cat, several minutes later, that brought her back to reality. His meowing and sudden urge to be pet settled her thoughts. She turned around, sternly, and said, "I meant it."

Neither she nor he truly thought she had meant those words. It wouldn't be this hard to abide by them if they really did.

"I, um—" he started, looking at her straight in the eye. He then faltered, something about her eyes daunting enough, and his gaze deviated to the floor. His hands were desperately trying to find something to do. "I wanted to see you," at her disapproving eye and near protest, he continued. "See how you were; catch up on an old friend. It's been _years_. I'm sure you want to know all about our _other_ friends too,"

There was a pause, a seemingly too long a pause. She sighed, perhaps in defeat. "Fine then," she finally said.

She gestured for him to follow her after grabbing Malky (the thing wouldn't stop begging for attention). They climbed up the stairs in silence—not an uncomfortable one though, he had to admit—to reach her residence in the abandoned corn exchange.

After he settled on a chair at the small table (he had been here, a couple on days ago), and after she'd fixed them some tea, she spoke.

"What do you hear from Boq?"

* * *

It was interesting how a simple question, plain, everyday words, could cascade into such events.

Plenty scenarios had played with his mind; he had thought he'd meet her, catch up on her, become the somewhat close friends they'd never been—and after he'd convince her to resurface, he'd head back home. He'd sort of planned it out actually, playing all kinds of scenes in his head: she would resist at first, of course she would, it was in her nature. But he'd insist—now _that_ was in his nature: insisting.

Insist and resist. Resist and insist. Fiyero played with the words, teasing each letter, rolling them about his tongue (in a whisper, of course; wouldn't want to wake her), tasting each peculiar word: they weren't so different from each other; quite alike in the articulation. Both shared most of their letters, something he found rather charming.

But then—they weren't that equal in significance, were they? One denoted deliverance, need of intellect to discern; and also some form of—disgust for something. The other, much simpler to him, meant persistence, obduracy perhaps. In brief: pull and push forces, respectively. Complementary, if they must.

It was rather amusing, he thought, how both previous words could fit them both to some crucial extent.

Despite their significant differences, he contemplated, both implied strength, boldness and a sort of stubbornness and foolishness; passion for an objective. And that's where she came in: _passion_. A single word that described her character in all its flaws and perfections.

He found himself staring and the beautiful creature who lay before him, half naked, with sheets all tangled between her bare legs, and her hair all mingled up from love-making; she was sleeping, face down with her hand serving as a bony pillow he knew couldn't be as comfortable as his own body. And her back was bare, glowing beneath the silver moonlight: it was precious and irresistible altogether. Her face, peaceful at the moment, was serene and calm, something he found to be the most treasured of all—it was rare to see Elphaba this calm, this quiet. He wondered, in his own half asleep self, if he liked her more awake: active, fervent, _passionate_.

Fiyero decided, a moment later, after watching her stir and turn around (and stealing a breathless gasp out of him, for the sheets were now barely covering her slender form), that he much rather have his beautiful, avid Fae anytime. The woman could make him feel powerless, even incapable, but her fervor was something to be admired.

"Yero? Still awake?" the mumbling that came from her lips was thick with drowsiness, which not only made Fiyero grin, but also snuggle closer to her form. He cupped her cheek, her eyes still closed, and he caught her sleepy smile in the fading moonlight. She was his doom. "You okay?" it was an innocent question, unlike Elphaba to prompt such words, but she was probably still too sleepy to even realize the implication.

"Shh," he cooed, "go back to sleep now." He didn't need to tell her twice, and her breath became shallow and steady at once, her body relaxing once again; she had fallen back asleep.

Fiyero kissed her head, smelling her hair, loving each of her exceptional qualities. And as he fell asleep that night, he couldn't help but feel content about how the course of events had taken its devious turns. As he glanced sideways to his own sleeping beauty, he was happy, for once, that his plans hadn't succeeded like he had intended in a beginning.


End file.
